


Don't Tell

by miasnape



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Challenge Response, Character Study, Community: sga_flashfic, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Established Relationship, M/M, Military, One Night Stands, Semi-Public Sex, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasnape/pseuds/miasnape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Wordless Challenge over at sga_flashfic.

The concrete hurts his knees.

This part of the storeroom smells of sage stuffing and flour, with an underlying tone of malt vinegar; like someone spilt some weeks ago and left it to dry rather than cleaning up. Mostly what John smells right now is musk and rough skin and abrasive hair and overwhelming maleness.

There's an unforgiving hand in his hair, pulling him close and holding him there as he swallows around his mouthful of dick and lets his tongue twitch along the underside and tries to forget that he needs air to live. Sometimes, it seems like he needs this more.

There's no warning before his mouth gets filled with bitter, salty fluid, and he pulls back as soon as he's allowed, reaching into his pocket and spitting into a tissue. He pulls himself gingerly onto his feet using the shelves as leverage, grimacing at the ache in his knees as they resettle in this different position. He runs his teeth over his tongue and spits into his tissue again, and throws it into the wastebasket by the door on his way out into the main base.

"--showing 'Die Hard' again tonight--"

"--we're thinking about 'Suzie' if it's a girl. Well, she is, anyway."

"--free shots for airmen tomorrow night at--"

"Why do they need so many men to do a simple--"

John walks down the hallway, between conversations and arguments and everyday chatter, and lets his brain remember the words for the things he's allowed to talk about; the things people are allowed to ask him about. He thinks about maybe going to see Bruce Willis smash his way through a window for the fourth time in two weeks, and about what's available for lunch today.

If a phantom scent of vinegar lingers on the back of his tongue, he doesn't tell.

\---

John can't pronounce the name of the club he's in, which isn't that important considering he doesn't know the name of the person he's fucking.

He knows the bathroom is painted blue and grey, and that the beer was cold, and that the condoms here cost two marks, pre-lubricated, and come from a battered and heavily graffitied dispenser.

He knows that the guy he's got braced against the toilet seems to like to moan in guttural German when he's having semi-public, casual gay sex, and that he seems to like it a little rough, but with a lot of skin-on-skin contact, and that when John leans forward and bites at his shoulders, his whole body shudders.

John's mouth tastes like metal and latex and German beer, and his dog tags are slithering across his sweaty skin under his t-shirt, and his balls are drawing up tight because a little rough works just as much for him, and his teeth scraping against hot flesh feels pretty damned amazing too.

John comes with a grunt and pants his way through a few more thrusts, riding it out. When he stills, the guy leans all his weight on one hand and uses the other to jerk his dick hard, his hand almost a blur, and he comes with John still inside him, voice reduced to whimpering little breaths.

John cleans himself up with damp toilet paper, and flushes the condom, and nods at the other guy – who's still zipping himself up – and heads back into the club. A wall of thumping euro-dance music surrounds him as he makes his way to the bar through gyrating bodies, blinking at the glare of strobe lighting. He orders another beer and starts to substitute 'she' for 'he' and 'her' for 'him' in his mind so that he's ready if anyone from his crew asks how he spent his weekend, all the while wondering why the fuck it should matter to anyone but him.

\---

Rodney sleeps with his mouth open, and he doesn't snore so much as he breathes kind of loud. John hitches himself up on one elbow and leans his cheek on his fist and just looks at him, feeling sleepy and the kind of content that only comes with really spectacular sex.

Rodney, John has discovered, will try anything in bed, including lots of things that don't actually include the bed. They've done it against walls and on the floor and on a desk chair, and about five different ways half on the bed, and once against a balcony railing. They've done it hard and slow and tender and fast and with Rodney on top and with John on top and fuelled with adrenaline and when they've both been so tired it hasn't been much more than some kissing and a grope.

The thing – the thing that John hadn't expected – is how much he loves the way Rodney just won't shut up. He talks non-stop about what they're doing, and what they've done, and what they're going to do some day, and he goes into detail. Christ, does he go into detail, and it's not always dirty. John will be blowing him and Rodney will be babbling about the exact shape of John's mouth, or his ears. Of course, other times he's more focused on letting John know that his mouth was made to suck Rodney's dick; that he's going to hold him still and fuck his mouth, and that John will take it, he'll want to just take it, and it'll be so good.

Rodney talks until the sound of his voice is another hand stroking John's skin and another tongue trailing over him, just another weapon in his sexual arsenal, and even when he's alone and jerking off John can hear Rodney's voice curling through his mind and taking him closer to the edge. These days, John equates sex with the way Rodney feels pressed against him, and the way Rodney looks, skin flushed and hair messed up and eyes like blue topaz, and the way Rodney's voice sounds in his ear.

Sex is words; it's one word: it's Rodney. And maybe John's employers still insist that no one can ask him about it, and he's definitely not allowed to tell, but it's the first time he's ever really wanted to be honest, and maybe the first time he has been with someone else, and he likes that.

Before he goes to sleep, arms and legs twined with Rodney's, he says, "Good Night."

END


End file.
